Holiday for Hire Read online

  Holiday for Hire

  Laurelin Paige

  Kayti McGee

  Contents

  Foreword

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  Also by Laurelin Paige

  Also by Kayti McGee

  About Kayti McGee

  About Laurelin Paige

  Foreword

  This novella was originally published in the anthology, All I Want for Christmas.

  One

  Jane Osborne stood frozen as a statue outside Menton. In her left hand, a box of crème brûlée. As though you could reheat that. In her right, a fifty dollar bill. In her head, the parting words of Blake Stupid Donovan, the man who’d asked her to a gorgeously romantic dinner that she’d assumed was a proposal, only to dump her over dessert.

  “You deserve happiness, even if you aren’t asking for it,” he’d said. Jane blinked once, twice. Well, she had been asking for it the best way she knew how, by going out with a man who was supposed to damn well marry her. He’d hired a matchmaker to arrange their courtship. She’d had to turn in a resume. There’d been an interview and everything.

  He was literally advertising marriage. Literally.

  Jerk.

  He’d looked like such a perfect match in theory. He was a business owner seeking the stay-at-home variety of a bride, a wife who ran charity events and volunteered at schools and threw amazing dinner parties. She’d essentially been groomed for this type of role. Her parents, who’d adopted her from China as a baby because it was the “in” thing at the time, had never expected her to hold a “real” job. Her father had been a workaholic banking mogul, and her mother had modeled a traditional upper class woman’s role. They’d put her in private schools that taught the same conservative social norms they had subscribed to. Before their death, they’d encouraged her (near useless) performance degree in music. Now, she worked part-time as the administrator of an arts education program for impoverished children and volunteered on various charitable committees. It gave her something to do when, with her sizeable inheritance, she didn’t actually have to work.

  She also didn’t have to have a husband, she reminded herself now. She hadn’t been looking for one when the opportunity to date Blake came along, but she’d seen how compatible they could be and she wasn’t one to let an opportunity pass her by.

  If she were honest with herself, she’d also admit that she could use the companionship.

  Well, so much for that. She was an excellent cook, and now she was back to preparing meals for one. The crème brûlée was not going to be enough to deal with this. She’d been exactly what Blake had asked for, and he’d left her here, humiliated, outside of a restaurant that she’d previously loved but could now never come back to.

  “Hey, lady! Ya comin’?” the cabbie yelled. Jane barely moved her hand to wave him off. She’d done everything right. Absolutely everything.

  Including, her cheeks burned to remember, inviting him to sleep with her without any feelings being involved. Because of course there were no feelings. Not where she was concerned because, as she’d been taught, she didn’t believe love should interfere with a contractual arrangement such as matrimony. Not where he was concerned because Blake was a cold, arrogant man.

  More of his lines ran through her head.

  “I’ve known for quite some time now that I can never have feelings for you,” he’d said, accompanied by a gentle smile. Well the sentiment was entirely mutual, but she’d had the social graces not to announce it so haughtily. And since the matchmaker who had found her had informed her that love was not to be the basis of the union—well. It was just plain rude of Blake.

  One is allowed to change one’s mind, but to pretend to be so high and mighty…

  Jane was flat-out offended.

  Her heels clicked on the concrete as she wandered mindlessly through the red-brick buildings toward the water. Nothing soothed her Boston spirit like the waterfront. Except, maybe Christmas, which was still one hundred and sixteen days away, as the countdown app on her phone had told her that morning. But, she thought as a small neon sign beckoned her out of the chill summer-night harbor wind, a Christmas themed shop would substitute nicely.

  Along with the Atlantic, a pocket-sized, sugar-scented, girl-owned storefront was a soothing balm to a bruised heart. Or a perfectly fine heart, even. Jane had never met a problem that a hand-crafted tree ornament and a gingerbread cookie couldn’t fix, or at least put into perspective. Especially when the tiny, hipster-glassed chick behind the counter was so enthusiastic.

  So she spent every one of those fifty ill-gotten dollars on a new garland for her bannister and various flavors of Christmas mini-cakes. She crammed the crème brûlée in the paper bag as well and headed toward the Institute of Art with her sweets stash.

  Her black dress, the proposal-accepting dress, snagged on the wooden slats of the dock as she sat, but it was okay. She couldn’t wear it again anyway, not with the memories now sewn to its lining, invisible to all but her. But looking out over the endless, infinite waves of the Atlantic, everything was okay. Even if it was only fifty-eight degrees out. Red velvet followed peppermint followed figgy pudding, bite after bite, until her tummy was as content as her mind.

  After all, it wasn’t that she was so upset about being dumped. That had happened before, and could certainly happen again.

  The thing that rankled was the insinuation that since Blake had found love—somehow, with someone, (but really, how and who?)—he had become superior to her.

  False. Patently false.

  A person could live a life without romance and still be completely content, couldn’t they? The lapping waters against the wooden pilings refused to answer anything but a soothing babble. No matter. She could answer herself: a person most certainly could have...until Fluffy had gone in for a routine checkup and been diagnosed with acute heart disease and put down with no chance at all for closure.

  Jane kicked her feet in frustration. She really, really missed her kitty baby.

  Because when she’d had him, she’d felt needed. Fulfilled. Mostly. Sure, she’d still had…physical needs, but those were easily met alone. Conversationally, she was satisfied by her volunteer work and her monthly lunches with the ladies who worked on the Back Bay Music Society with her.

  Beyond that?

  There was the occasional twinge deep down in the spot where her heart met her gut when she made the mistake of watching a romantic comedy. That was just Hollywood’s influence.

  And the reason she tended to prefer documentaries was not because of that; it was simply because life didn’t follow an easy narrative arc. However, a question could be carefully investigated and answered, if the methodology was designed well and followed carefully. Jane liked logic.

  So had Blake—until he’d fallen for someone else.

  Well, if love made a person impervious to logic, then no thank you. Along with about a hundred other reasons. She’d watched a documentary on it, too, so she was extremely well-versed in the science behind hormonal rushes. They tended to follow sex, but could be forced via other means. Someone had even invented a 30-something question interview that could make people fall in love. The general idea was that opening up to someone combined with lots of eye contact gave you a sense of comfort and mutual vulnerability that people often perceived as “love.”

  Her eyes caught on a figure strolling the dock next to her, a gruff-looking man wearing jeans and a long coat of the discount variety.
He seemed lost in thought as well while he stared out over the bay. Despite his lack of stylish outerwear, there was something definitely attractive about him—his striking cheekbones and strong-set jaw. Now there was someone who made her hormones rush, someone she could imagine falling in love with given the right amount of eye contact and over-sharing. He resembled Colin Farrell—not the tired, worn actor that graced the Internet these days, but the five-years ago, scruffy version of the man, the version Jane often fantasized about in the dark when no one else was around to impress with her witty thoughts and cultured notions.

  Too bad he wasn’t husband material—the lookalike, not the actual Colin Farrell—though she had her doubts that he was up-to-snuff as well, even despite his fame and fortune. It took more than money and notoriety to become a man of stature. A man like that also had to be groomed and primed and educated as to the ways of the elite.

  And this man on the dock, handsome as he may be, was certainly not groomed, primed, or educated in high society. From the look of him, he’d probably prefer a beer to a fine bottle of wine. A domestic beer, at that. Out of a can.

  Ew.

  And that was why attraction alone did not dictate whom Jane dated. Attraction was fleeting. She had also once watched a documentary on arranged marriages and the proof was in the pudding—people who understood that the initial rush of sex appeal would not last forever built lasting relationships on respect and shared values. That, not the Hollywood meet-cute-and-lust combo, was the way to go if you were serious about a future.

  Hence the entire reason she’d dated Blake at all.

  She forced her eyes away from the man candy in her sights and recalled the details of her brief affair (if she could call it that) with Blake Donovan. The matchmaker who had set them up had been extremely clear on the matter: Mr. Donovan was interested in a wife purely because, at his age, marriage was expected in a successful businessman. It was never intended to be about a magical connection. It was meant to be about a compatible arrangement. Like herself, he had seemed to understand the secret to a successful union was to not bring emotion into the equation.

  And Jane had been superb at leaving all emotion out of their relationship, even if the dates they’d gone on had been less than impressive. That wasn’t Blake’s fault, of course. The matchmaker, Andy, seemed to be extraordinarily incompetent. Their particularly memorable second date, ostensibly to see a Jane Austen update starring Hollywood’s current sweetheart couple, had, through a mishap, become front-row tickets to something called Martian Death Camp 2.

  If she were being truly honest—something she rarely was—she’d say that the space movie was maybe more up her alley than the “blah-blah-blah, let us all find suitable husbands to breed with” type of English melodrama.

  She’d never admit that to him, however. That was simply not the sort of thing a highbrow gentleman wanted to hear from his potential mate, so Jane had just pretended she was too bland to care. Blake had seemed impressed with her go-with-the-flow attitude, had remarked on it several times in fact.

  The evening of the space movie; the time his wallet had mysteriously disappeared from his pocket; the time their reservations had been lost and no one could accommodate them but Chili’s Grill & Bar…every single flipping time, Jane had gone along without complaint. Even though Chili’s had awful food, and she had felt truly put out.

  She had remained amenable and civilized. She’d done everything right. Apart from forgetting a jacket tonight, which she wasn’t ready to chalk up as a mistake, since she hadn’t expected the physical activity she’d partake in this evening would be either outside or alone.

  Her cheeks burned at the recollection of her last-ditch effort to salvage what she’d honestly thought was the beginning of a beautifully agreeable situation.

  “The only thing we haven’t explored is our sexual compatibility,” she had said. As the crème brûlée was being boxed up, no less. Because he’d already made his decision. And she, fool that she was, hadn’t been willing to give it up. “The last compatibility test” she’d called it. And it should have been!

  She let out a frustrated sigh, and leaned back on the dock. It was more comfortable to recline after all those cakes anyway.

  Her gaze turned again to the attractive man she’d spotted earlier, wondering briefly what it would be like to have a “compatibility test” with the likes of him. Or anyone, for that matter. She hadn’t been “compatibility tested” with a man in longer than she was willing to admit to the ladies who lunched.

  Not that they would discuss such things anyways. It was a genteel bunch who met for tea sandwiches and chardonnay. Also most of them were card-carrying AARP members. Not that the surgeries allowed them to look anything but ageless and sort of weirdly shiny.

  Jane was perfectly happy accepting their fates as her future. Just...she’d always assumed the most difficult part of her thirty-year plan would be deciding which snooty private school would serve her two point five children. She certainly never thought she’d be approaching thirty and still be a single woman.

  She was getting riled up all over again, and her palms were starting to chafe against the boards. Now that the panacea of the water and the comfort from the mini-cakes was wearing off, the cold was setting in. Clambering to her feet, Jane sighed again. If she took off her heels, she could walk a while before having to catch a cab.

  It was purely coincidental that the scruffy hottie had chosen the moment before to make his own departure from the dock. She followed behind him and was both stunned and impressed when he bent to drop some cash into the hand of a vagabond who then took off excitedly in the opposite direction, presumably to spend his newfound fortune.

  As the Colin Farrell twin set off again, Jane noticed something sticking out of his pocket flutter to the ground. It was probably just a receipt or another equally unimportant paper, but litter was litter, so she wandered over to pick it up and inspect it. She was immediately glad she had when she realized the paper was a folded up check from a temporary employment agency. An uncashed check.

  Her first thought was that her assumptions had been right when she’d pegged him as under-qualified for any sort of relationship—the alumni ladies would rip him apart. Her second thought was that as down-as-his-luck as he might be, he’d still given to someone less off than himself. Admirable.

  Her third thought was to realize the poor fellow very likely couldn’t afford to lose this particular piece of paper. Sure, it could be reissued, but the hassle. What if he lived paycheck to paycheck? He might need that money now.

  With that particular thought in mind, she jogged after him. “Excuse me?” she called as she neared him. “Sir? I think you dropped something!”

  She was already breathless from the sprint, but there was still enough air remaining in her lungs to feel it rush out of her as he turned to face her. He was even more handsome close up—his lips full, his brows severe, his eyes so muddy and brown she could swim in them the same way she could swim in the chocolate fondue that Miriam Vanderholt featured at her annual Christmas party. Her inferior party.

  Damn. She could stare at him for hours.

  “Yes?” His voice was low with a delicious scratch that scraped at her usual decorum. Even despite the thickness of his South Boston dialect, the sound of it made her dizzy.

  In fact, she’d very nearly forgotten why she’d chased him down.

  She glanced down at the folded rectangular paper in her grip. “Oh. This. I think you dropped this,” she said, extending her hand in his direction. “It’s yours, isn’t it?”

  His brow furrowed momentarily, then cleared as he recognized the item in her grasp. “It is. Thank you. It must have fallen from my pocket.”

  His hand brushed against hers as he took the paycheck from her—probably because she extended her index finger so that contact was practically inevitable—and she shivered.

  “You’re welcome. It seemed important.” Was she grinning too widely? Suddenly she couldn’t r
emember the proper amount of upturn that was appropriate for a smile at a stranger.

  “I woulda been upset if I’d lost it,” he said, shoving the check into an inside pocket of his coat this time. “Thanks again.”

  She nodded, too distracted by his attractive appearance to remember how words worked. How would it feel to run her fingers across the scruff on his jaw? She had to concentrate to keep her hand from reaching up and finding out.

  “‘Twas the Shop Before Christmas” the man said, breaking her awkward staring. “One of my favorite spots.”

  She looked down to the bag in her hands, the name of the store was written in bold letters on the white paper. He was probably just saying it was a favorite spot to be nice, but she responded eagerly. “Mine too.”

  “What did you get, may I ask?”

  “It’s silly really.” But Jane never missed an opportunity to talk about Christmas décor. “It’s a garland with miniature nutcrackers and ballerinas amongst the greenery.”

  “That doesn’t sound silly.”

  “I ordered an outdoor version with white twinkling lights as well. It will look great with the wreath I bought last year, and the red of the nutcracker’s uniforms will coordinate with the skirt I have planned for the foyer tree.” Not that she knew how she’d put the garland up—she was more than a little fearful of ladders. She’d have to hire the teenager from down the block like she did last year. He’d been terribly disrespectful of her more precious decorations, but she’d lectured him afterward and she was sure he’d learned his lesson, she hoped.

  “A real holiday enthusiast, huh?”

  She blushed. “That obvious? It’s just Christmas that I’m into. It’s bright and cheerful and everyone’s always happy. It’s the one day that we can all pretend that what we wish for might come true.” She knew better, of course, but she wasn’t going to go into that with a stranger. Honestly, she couldn’t believe he was feigning interest. She was attractive enough, but also plain. Too plain to garner the attention of men she didn’t know.